


A Scene About Pronouns and Friendship

by onlyacoffee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Fluff, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:36:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyacoffee/pseuds/onlyacoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the beginning of their friendship, Enjolras pays Feuilly a short visit...</p><p>--</p><p>  <i>"Enjolras, are we friends?"</i></p><p>  <i>"Of course we are," Enjolras’ features relaxed into a smile, but Feuilly was not convinced.</i></p><p>  <i>"Are we? Because I believe you feel we cannot be. You speak of fraternity and equality, and you know how much I respect that, and you. But why do you keep addressing me as a stranger?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Scene About Pronouns and Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a months-old discussion bout the way Enjolras addresses Feuilly at some point in the Brick: why does he use "vous", the formal French pronoun, instead of the informal "tu" like with all of his other friends?
> 
> This has been sitting in my drafts for forever - and my good friend fizzygingr on tumblr proofread it for me!

Though Feuilly usually went to bed not very long after coming home from work, he wasn’t sleeping when he heard the knocking on the door. It was not yet midnight and he had been sitting on his worn mattress, the light of a single candle guiding his reading, while his eyelids slowly but surely lost their fight against sleep. The evening was just on the cool side of comfortable, the early spring air seeping through the walls and his thin nightclothes, but as the unexpected visitor knocked again, then a third and a fourth time, Feuilly wrapped himself in his blanket and rose.

Warily, he cracked the door open; his eyes widened when he recognized the tall figure on the other side.

"Enjolras."

"Good evening, Feuilly," the student greeted him, his tone calm and polite despite the small crease in his brow as he took in the other’s appearance. "Oh, it must be… later than I though. I am not disturbing you, am I?"

"No, it’s all right." Feuilly looked down. Irritation nibbled at the edge of his mind at the sight of the other man, and he struggled to comprehend it - at any other time he would have been delighted to chat with Enjolras. Exhaustion, or the slight headache building up behind his eyes, could explain it. Or perhaps it was the unexpected surprise: in their short acquaintance, though Enjolras had walked with him back to his building once or twice, Feuilly had not yet invited him into his small, under-furnished rooms.

Feuilly looked around; long shadows had swallowed the rickety table at the corner of the room, painted over the humidity-stained walls, hidden the sheets of paper scattered on every surface.

He was not ashamed, he told himself. Never ashamed. Only - irritated.

He breathed in, trying to calm the pounding of his heartbeat on his temple.

"Please, come in," he stepped aside to leave room for Enjolras to shut the door. Enjolras wasn’t wearing a coat, despite the low temperatures, but Feuilly still felt painfully naked, in his threadbare nightclothes. 

"I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone. it’s quite late -"

"No, no, I am sorry," Enjolras cut him off, "I was in the neighbourhood and I simply desired to speak with you, in private, if possible." And there it was again, the unnerving formality of his speech.

"Oh," Unable - or unwilling - to look firmly into the sky blue gaze fixed so intently on him, Feuilly tightened the blanket around his shoulders and stepped back further into the room. "Of course, I, uh," he pulled his two chairs closer to the table. "Please, sit," he said, mirroring Enjolras’ own formality. "I will get another candle. Do you need a blanket? Something to drink? I do not have much, but…"

"It’s quite all right," Enjolras sat, putting a gentle but firm hand on Feuilly’s shoulder. "Sit down with me?" Enjolras gently removed his hand and folded them in his lap. A shiver ran through Feuilly’s spine and he sat on his chair next to Enjolras, feeling stiff and awkward. 

Silence fell for a moment. Feuilly finally raised his eyes to meet Enjolras’, still trained on his face as his brow furrowed with… curiosity? Feuilly fought the urge to squirm in his seat, fidgeting instead with the edge of the blanket. He should have gotten dressed, at least, but he so rarely had visitors…

"When we met, earlier today," Enjolras spoke bluntly, as was his nature. "You seemed uneasy, and I was wondering why. I could not stop thinking - was it something I said?"

His voice softened, and even in the dim light of the candle Feuilly could see his pale cheeks colour.

"I - not exactly. It’s not important. Please don’t trouble yourself."

"Feuilly. Please. I want to know your thoughts. And I want you to know -” and he fumbled a little, his graceful hands twisting in his lap, and for the first time Feuilly noticed the shadows under his eyes. “You are welcome here. We - I - want you with us. Your opinions are incredibly valuable for our cause.”

I know that, Feuilly wanted to say, but he bit his tongue. His expression must have betrayed his feelings again, though, as Enjolras frowned.

"Enjolras, are we friends?"

"Of course we are," Enjolras’ features relaxed into a smile, but Feuilly was not convinced.  


"Are we? Because I believe you feel we cannot be."

Enjolras paled and recoiled as if physically hurt by the implication. Feuilly felt his own face heat up with guilt, but it was too late to go back now.

"I wish you considered me a friend," he said, finding himself again unable to meet Enjolras’s eyes. "But I don’t think you do. Do you? You speak of fraternity and equality, and you know how much I respect that, and you."

"The feeling is mutual," Enjolras said quietly, and Feuilly realised he was staring at the ground. He sighed.

"Then why do you keep addressing me as a stranger?"

Enjolras winced again.

"I did not mean it that way."

"I know," Feuilly shrugged, trying to appear as though he felt less strongly than he did. "But you speak with much less formality to our other friends. I wonder what makes me different, is all."

"You aren’t. You are unique, but you are not - different," still using the formal pronouns.  
"But I am different. It is fine, truly.”

"It does not make you less, of course. You deserve all of my respect."  


"And I do appreciate it," Feuilly felt himself smiling a little, and he tentatively switched to the singular pronoun. "But truthfully, your friendship and honesty would mean more to me."

"Yours would mean the world to me as well," Enjolras looked up and answered Feuilly’s smile with one of his own, and for the first time, the tutoiement slid easily from between his lips.

Feuilly’s heart warmed immediately, and he passed a hand over his face.

"Besides, it feels odd, you being so formal with me. I am younger than you, I think."

"Are you?" Enjolras raised a pale eyebrow.

"I spoke to Courfeyrac the other day. We were born the same year."

"That is right, then," Enjolras shook his head, amused. "We were children together, Courfeyrac and I - did you know? We did not live in the same town, but our parents were acquaintances and often met. We knew each other well enough from climbing trees and playing tricks on our governesses." A fond smile played on Enjolras’ lips. "At the time, it was hard to believe he would mature one day. But I suppose he has."

"I can imagine perfectly how mischievous a child Courfeyrac would have been. Yes, he grew up to be a brilliant man," Feuilly felt a warm surge of affection for the centre of their group. "and very kind."

"He is."

Silence. Feuilly broke the silence, voice soft:

"You are too, Enjolras. Kind, I mean."

"Am I?" Enjolras’ tone was self-deprecating: merely surprised, and a little bit curious. "I wouldn’t think ‘kind’ was a word many people would use to describe me."  


"This is because your kindness is different. It’s a grand kindness. Your dreams for the people, for France - they are incredibly kind. And you… you better people. You don’t condescend to them, but you bring them to be the best that they can be it. It’s… it’s fantastic, it truly is.”

"Is it?"

Feuilly looked away, embarrassed.

"Oh, you must think I am completely ridiculous."

"I don’t," a smile, slight but gentle. "I’m only thinking that we seem to see the same thing in each other."

"Oh," Feuilly looked down at his lap, at the thin material covering his legs. His ears were ringing, and he blushed, trying to come up with a sensible answer. "I don’t…"

"You do. You wish to liberate the people - no, all peoples. You taught yourself to read, Feuily,” Enjolras’ eyes shone - no, burned - so brightly that it seemed to Feuilly that their light eclipsed the candle’s flame. “That is remarkable, my friend - I have said it before and I will say it again: you deserve admiration from all of us.”

"No, I…" Feuilly hesitated, fiddling with a lose seam on his blanket. Enjolras had just revealed a part of his past to him - it felt fair of Feuilly to do the same in return.

"I have told you my parents died, haven’t I?" he said, voice hoarse, not nearly as confident as he wanted it to sound.

"You did," Enjolras took his hand in both of his, and Feuilly, despite the warmth of Enjolras’ touch, shrugged the blanket higher over his shoulders. He took a deep, steadying breath, and continued.

"It was a long time ago. I have only very vague memories of my father. He worked in a factory, I think - whenever he came home to my mother and I, his clothes would be filled with smoke and ash. But he could read - probably not very well, but he could, and for me, it was amazing. My mother could not, though I think she wished she could. Whenever he had the time, my father would sit and read to us, and he’d promise to teach us both, one day. It’s my clearest memory of him."

He closed his eyes, picturing the thin, round-faced man, his red-rimmed eyes and his pale, worn skin, his features reconstructed in Feuilly’s mind half from a memory, half from the tired faces of other middle-aged factory workers Feuilly had met as a child.

He felt Enjolras give his hand a encouraging squeeze, and he looked up, grateful. “My father died when I was four or five.” He remembered the confusion and the fear when suddenly, his father wasn’t there anymore. He remembered his mother lying on the bed, crying all day and all night until she, too, left. He did not have a home anymore after that; and would not have one for many, many years.

"After that, I had no one to teach me, but I managed. At church, in the orphanage…" he chuckled. "I’d borrow every material I could get my hands on, every leaflet, every book, just to see if I could teach myself to read. At night, I’d practice reading aloud. I’d pretend my mother was beside me, and that I was reading to her." He rubbed his eyes, surprised at the ease with which he had opened up to Enjolras. "It’s a bit silly, isn’t it? A childish game. But at the time it meant a lot to me."

"It’s not silly," Enjolras assured him. "You - you have adopted the country for your mother. You still read to her, every day. You will be her teacher."

Feuilly nodded. “In a brighter future, thanks to you. One in which every child will have a home, no matter where they come from.”

Enjolras pressed his hand again, and his smile felt like a promise.

They sat discussing quietly for a while, Feuilly’s dry, callused hand still clasped between Enjolras’, until at last it was past midnight and Feuilly had completely forgotten his earlier irritation. They had pulled their chairs close together and their shoulders were almost touching; the "tu" and "tiens" floated from one sentence to the next with surprising ease.

Eventually, though, Feuilly noticed the candle burning low.

"Oh, " he said, frowning. "I did not realise…"

"It’s all right," Enjolras rose, but didn’t let go of Feuilly’s hand quite yet. "I’m sorry, I should have kept better track of the time. I did not meant for my visit to take up so much of your evening…"

"No, no, it’s fine, don’t worry," Feuilly still threw a worried glance at the candle - the flame would last long enough from him to see Enjolras out, and perhaps until he got to his bed, but he would need to get a new one before he could read in the evening again. It was worth it, though. "I don’t want to throw you out in the cold…"

"I have kept you up too long anyway, and you need to sleep," Enjolras declared. His tone left no place for half-hearted apologies. "You have to work tomorrow, don’t you?"

"Well, yes. No rest for the wicked," Feuilly grinned wryly. Enjolras smiled back; his eyes bore into Feuilly’s, dark and soft in the shade of the room, and Feuilly felt himself blush.

"Thank you, my friend," Enjolras said, pressing Feuilly’s hand one last time before gently letting go. "I’m very glad we had this talk. I am honoured that you have shared with me what I suspect is only part of your story."

Feuilly opened his mouth to shrug off the praise, but Enjolras refused to let him.

"No, please. It’s the truth. I am very, very glad to be your friend."

Feuilly could only nod in response. “Yes. Me too. And now that we know more of each other’s childhood, no more _vous_ and _votre_ , hmm?” he added, teasing.

"Yes, I assure you, I do know better now," Enjolras’s eyes twinkled. "Now, I hope I will be seeing you soon?" 

"Of course!" Feuilly replied, surprised at how young his own voice sounded to him. "I will be there next week. You have my word."

"I look forward to it," Enjolras said, and then he was out of the door and back into the cool darkness of the night.

Feuilly shut the door behind him, and he stood there, still in his thin nightclothes, alone again with his dying candle; but his spirit still felt surprisingly warm.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading - and as usual, comments are very appreciated. :)


End file.
